


Hands

by AbsolutelyNotAlex



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Fluff, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Short, seriously, starrison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-23 20:17:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20212090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbsolutelyNotAlex/pseuds/AbsolutelyNotAlex
Summary: Ringo notices something at a concert, and things follow.Starrison Big Bang 2019





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the Beatles. Clearly.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed the announcement, “please welcome to the stage, The Beatles!”   
The boys sauntered out onto the stage, John and George with their guitars, Paul with his bass, and Ringo with his sticks. They all took their places, John said a few words to the screaming audience, and they started the first song.   
John sang the wrong lyrics, Paul mucked up on the rhythm, but they got through it.   
Ringo had sat behind the boys for two years while they played. He knew the slight slump of Paul’s shoulders when he missed a note, or the near-imperceptible way John bowed his head when he forgot the words to a song. So when George winced just slightly as he slid his calloused fingers across the strings of his guitar, he noticed. The young guitarist never missed a note, the whole concert, but when the steel strings dug into his fingers on a certain chord, or on a slide, he flinched.   
Ringo wondered if George’s hands were bothering him. He’d seen the young lad bandaging his fingers before, after learning a new chord he’d never practised. Ringo studied George’s back for the rest of the show. He didn’t slip up, not even once, but every so often, he’d cringe a little. Ringo felt a wave of sympathy for his fellow bandmate, not wanting to see George in even the slightest amount of pain. He was falling hard. When they were off the stage, he was fine until the lads got to the hotel and paired off. As he opened the door to his and Ringo’s room, there was that wince again.   
“Are your hands bothering you?” He blurted.  
“They’re a bit sore,” George mumbled.   
“C’mere,” Ringo sat down on the bed, patting the spot beside him. “Let’s see.”   
George sat down beside Ringo, and held his hands out, palms up. “‘S nothin’.”  
Ringo marveled at the hands in front of him. The ones he’d studied since he’d joined the band, the ones he wanted to hold, though he probably never would. The tips of George’s fingers on his left hand were red.   
“Where does it hurt?”   
George didn’t answer.  
Ringo lightly touched the tip of his middle finger. “Here?”  
The guitarist nodded his head.  
Without thinking, Ringo gently took George’s hand. When he got no reaction, he decided, well fuck, why not. He raised the hand to his face, and pressed a kiss to each fingertip. George’s eyes fell shut.   
No. No, no, no, no, no. This wasn’t supposed to be how this happened. He was supposed to slap Ringo, punch him in the face and call him a bloody queer. But he never did. Ringo kissed the center of his palm. His eyes stayed closed.   
“Hey,” said the drummer, “look at me.”  
George peeled his eyes open. Blue irises gazed into brown ones, before George finally asked, shyly, “Why?”  
“Because I wanted to.”  
“For how long?”  
“Longer than I care to admit.”  
He got no response, George just took his hand and laid his head on Ringo’s shoulder. That was how the pair fell asleep later that night.


End file.
